


Something So Precious About This

by 221cbakerstreet



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fanart, First Kiss, First Time, Good Omens Big Bang, Illustrated, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), symbolic apples, that picnic finally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22565446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221cbakerstreet/pseuds/221cbakerstreet
Summary: “You know,” Crowley muttered. “We are retired.”“Is that what we’re calling it, then?” Aziraphale chuckled at the thought. Retired. “Surely Gabriel will be sending me a nice gold watch any day now. Probably lost in the post.” Crowley laughed.“Well, whatever we call it, our head offices don’t seem to want anything to do with us,” Crowley deliberated. “At least, not for the moment. And I mean, we’re not exactly spry young 4,000-and-somethings anymore,” he continued.“Is there a point, dear?” Aziraphale asked, but his tone was fond.“The point is.” Crowley smiled, remembering a conversation much like this one, a lifetime ago. He screwed up his courage and came out with it. “Don’t you think it’s time that we… I don’t know.” The blush was creeping back. “Settled-down-in-the-country-or-something?”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 363
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019, Top Aziraphale Recs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Created for the [Good Omens Big Bang](https://goodomensbigbang.tumblr.com/) with breathtaking illustrations by the incredible [LordAzazel23](https://lordazazel23.tumblr.com/), a gorgeous podfic and cover art by the magnificent [Compassrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/compassrose), and beta read by Compassrose and the fabulous  
> [Euny-Sloane](https://eunyisadoran.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I was so lucky to be paired with such incredibly talented artists!

It was becoming quite clear that, following the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t and the subsequent mutual confoundment of Heaven and Hell, London did not necessarily hold for Aziraphale and Crowley what it once had.

At first, it was the little things. 

Once, while taking a tranquil midday stroll in St. James Park, Aziraphale had gone very pale very quickly and veered the two of them off behind a large oak tree. Crowley was perplexed- he shot his head around, nose out for trouble, but there was no one on the path but the two of them- well, and a dark-haired man clad in a gray sweatsuit jogging in the opposite direction, but he seemed to pose very little threat. Crowley shot the angel a confused look, but Aziraphale’s cheeks pinked and he shook his head. 

“Thought it was someone else,” he murmured. They kept on with their walk, but Aziraphale was much quieter- less inclined to laugh, and more inclined to toss furtive glances behind them. 

A few weeks later, as the two were enjoying a scenic and relaxing drive around Mayfair on just this side of the sound barrier, Crowley had slammed the brakes and barely skidded to a stop without maiming several pedestrians- all because a booming voice had interrupted Johann Sebastian Bach’s “I’m in Love with my Car” in A Minor- although it turned out to just be BBC Radio 2 sending out a test of the public broadcast alert system. Aziraphale pursed his lips in worry, but said nothing.

A lunch at the Ritz was interrupted when Aziraphale noted with speculation a group of diners in suspiciously well-tailored pastel suits. Once, Crowley did a frightened little jig, jumping up from the bench where the two of them had been feeding the ducks as a bee flew near his ear- which, Aziraphale admitted with a twinge of guilt, had caused the angel to bite his lip and giggle before realizing that it was not the presence of the tiny insect that had startled his companion, but the sound of buzzing. Small instances, but they added up. 

The final straw was an afternoon spent, as many afternoons had been spent in their newfound almost-freedom, drinking and chatting companionably in the back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop. They had already been a bit tipsy walking home from the restaurant, and Aziraphale had forgotten (not for the first time) to flip the rarely-used “open” sign to “closed”. This was not typically a problem, as Aziraphale’s shop was less than inviting to eager tourists at the best of times, and locals knew from reputation that its proprietor was not quite so friendly to customers- even paying ones.[1] Therefore, when the bell tinkled a short staccato of chimes from above the front door, it was unexpected to say the least. Crowley watched from his spot languidly laid out on the sofa like it was a Victorian fainting couch as the color drained from Aziraphale’s face, and he noticed the angel sober up immediately.[2] He hissed at Crowley to get into the kitchen, which he might have done if he wasn’t so confused and frankly piss drunk, but instead his protective instincts kicked in and he followed the angel out into the main area of the shop, shedding his stupor with regret, demonic instincts taking over. 

He could practically feel the divine energy crackling off Aziraphale, could almost see the wings and flaming sword that he had worn as a guardian of Eden as the angel’s posture straightened and his eyes flared. So, he expected, could the poor university student who had just popped in for a first-edition Goethe. The sight of an avenging angel and a very possessive demon, however, close to glowing with heavenly rage and hellfire, put him off that idea quite immediately, and he was out the door before you could say “Mephistopheles”.[3]

Aziraphale sagged against the counter, a look of weariness creeping into his face. Crowley’s gaze softened. 

“Worried it was upstairs?” he commiserated, leaning closer to the angel. Aziraphale sighed.

“Or down. Either one, really. Just worried that this…” his eyes dropped to the space between them, a space that was barely even there at all. “That it can’t last.” 

“I know the feeling,” Crowley said, his voice bleak. “Too many people in this damn city. Too many double-takes, too many ‘what ifs’.” Aziraphale nodded, then looked up.

“Why _did_ you come here, anyway?” he asked, genuinely curious. He was surprised that he hadn’t thought to ask in the few hundred years that they’d shared a post-code. “London, I mean. Before that, you had never stayed in one place for long. Spain, Greece, Italy…” Aziraphale counted on his fingers as he listed the Mediterranean villas Crowley had inhabited, all with private beaches where he could lie blissful on a rock like a lizard in the sun. “You always hated the damp and the cold. Why here?”

Crowley stared at him, incredulous, mouth agape, but of course the angel was oblivious. He shook his head. 

“Oh, right mystery, that,” he snapped. “Why _would_ any demon want to take up residence in a miserable, pox-ridden metropolis like this one? Didn’t even have a proper _sewer system_ for the first few centuries, and the _smog_ …” Aziraphale nodded. 

“Well, plenty to do, then, I suppose. Sin to foment and such.” Crowley sucked at his teeth. 

“Yes, that was it. I bought a flat in this cold, wet, overcrowded city to foment _sin_. Couldn’t be any other reason. Not a one.” Aziraphale cocked his head. Crowley gaped. He really didn’t get it. 

“Hell. You really don’t know?” Crowley’s cheeks were burning. Aziraphale saw the flush creep slightly toward his hairline, beneath the serpent on his temple. He suddenly felt the strangest, and strongest, urge to touch Crowley there, to brush a finger ever so lightly against the mark. Indeed, almost of its own accord his hand seemed to be creeping upward to do just that, until he realized what was happening and stamped down the urge, casting a sidelong glance at the still very empty doorway. Crowley crossed his arms and murmured something, too soft for Aziraphale to hear. 

“What was that?” he asked, leaning closer. Crowley rolled his eyes. 

“ _You_ were here, Angel.” Crowley’s arms remained crossed tight across his chest, as if in protection.

“Me?” Aziraphale answered, a hand at his chest. 

“No, Queen bloody Victoria. Of course, you. Who else?” Crowley sneered. “You… You bought a damned _bookshop_.” He gestured around. “You put down roots. You made, well… A home. And I wanted…” He trailed off. Aziraphale’s eyes widened.

“You wanted to be a part of it,” he whispered, voice as low and breathless as Crowley’s, as if still frightened to be overheard. The demon’s eyes met his own, with a look that Aziraphale had rarely, if ever, seen in them. Vulnerability. He reached between them and grasped Crowley’s hand. 

“Tell the whole bloody world, why don’t you,” Crowley muttered, but the venom had left his voice. He gazed at Aziraphale’s hand on his, stone still, as if nervous that, if he moved even a muscle, the contact would cease, like a frightened butterfly spooked from its perch. 

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale continued, squeezing Crowley’s hand in affirmation- though which of them he was trying to comfort, he wasn’t sure. “I’m sorry I didn’t… You…” He straightened up and started again, looking directly into Crowley’s eyes. “Crowley, you have been the only constant in my life for millennia. You _are_ home.” A choking sound, something like _Nngkk_ , and the barest seed-pearl of a tear ghosted its way along the crease of the demon’s wide eyes. Aziraphale moved his hand as if to brush it away, but Crowley wouldn’t let go.

“You can’t just go around saying things like that, Angel.” He laughed, squeezing tighter, blinking away the tear, the smallest drop of silver lost again in a sea of gold. Aziraphale realized that this was the first time they’d held hands since the bus back from Tadfield.[4] Reluctant to let go, they moved as one, Aziraphale flipping the “open” sign to its much more typical “closed”, and retreating once again to the back room of the shop. 

“You know,” Crowley muttered, as they sat down again. Neither of them mentioned that Aziraphale had foregone his usual wingback chair to cozy up next to the demon, whose hand was still grasped firmly in his own. They clinked glasses and smiled. “We _are_ retired.”

“Is that what we’re calling it, then?” Aziraphale chuckled at the thought. _Retired_. “Surely Gabriel will be sending me a nice gold watch any day now. Probably lost in the post.” Crowley laughed.

“Well, whatever we call it, our head offices don’t seem to want anything to do with us,” Crowley deliberated. “At least, not for the moment. And I mean, we’re not exactly spry young 4,000-and-somethings anymore,” he continued. 

“Is there a point, dear?” Aziraphale asked, but his tone was fond. 

“The _point_ is.” Crowley smiled, remembering a conversation much like this one, a lifetime ago. He screwed up his courage and came out with it. “Don’t you think it’s time that we… I don’t know.” The blush was creeping back. Maybe this time, Aziraphale thought, he wouldn’t fight the urge to touch the mark, black against the red sunrise growing behind it. Just this once. “Settled-down-in-the-country-or-something?” The question came out as one long strand of words strung tightly together. Aziraphale’s eyes widened. 

“You mean… Us?” he asked, still unsure. Crowley nodded. 

“We could go off together.” Crowley smiled. There was a freedom in having taken the plunge, having asked the question. He was falling now, as he’d fallen from grace and fallen in love. Falling was a state he knew well. He just hoped that he wasn’t going too fast. “Maybe not Alpha Centauri, but certainly somewhere warmer than this. Less crowded.” Crowley allowed his thumb barely a brush against the wrist beneath his hand, and shivered at the contact. 

Aziraphale gulped down a “ _my side would definitely not like that_ ”- his immediate fear response, a coping mechanism for when things were becoming too real. But he _wanted_ this to be real. He didn’t want to push Crowley away, to tell him to stop, that it could never be, that they had to be _sensible_. 

And there were no sides, not anymore, were there? None that mattered. None but their own. He stopped himself and took a moment to consider it, _really_ consider it. A flat of their own. Maybe even a little cottage. No more sneaking about, no more meeting in museum cafes or on the number 2 bus. Somewhere to come home to. Some _one_ to come home to. The only one there had ever really been. 

“With a quaint little library,” Aziraphale mused out loud. “Stacks of whitewashed bookshelves. And a garden, of course, you do love your plants.” He hardly noticed Crowley as he muttered, who was drawn now, tight as a bow string, a coil of potential energy. All the potential in the world. “Somewhere near a nice restaurant or two, of course. Oh, perhaps by the _sea_ …” 

“Angel,” Crowley was barely able to croak. “Are you saying… That is, are you really considering...” Aziraphale turned his head to meet the eyes of the Hell’s most recently retired demon.

“Have you ever been to the South Downs?” he asked, smiling, and Crowley would have followed him to the moon.

* * *

1Especially paying ones.   
Return to text   


2Which was truly a waste of the very good Château Margaux they had been partaking of. Only so much of it left, you know. Time may be taking one steadily further from the 14th century, Crowley often mused, but it was also inexorably leading them further from a much better class of grape. You could practically taste the nuclear fission in anything bottled post-1950. Return to text

3Incidentally, as Crowley had taken off his sunglasses some time ago, this was exactly what the poor young man had been attempting to blurt out when Crowley’s decidedly inhuman glower flashed in his direction. Return to text

4He didn’t know why. This was nice, this hand-holding thing. You had to give humans their due, once in awhile.  
Return to text


	2. Chapter 2

Finding a cottage to their liking wasn’t too difficult, when you consider that fixer-uppers are much easier to work with when you have a veritable wellspring of miraculous energy to draw upon. Far enough from town that they wouldn’t draw attention, but close enough that they could walk to the quaint little bakery if the mood took them[1]. With the windows thrown open, the sounds and scents of the sea wafted in, and in the morning, the sunrise reflected off white cliffs in the distance. There were two bedrooms, but Aziraphale made quick work of that, filling one from floor-to-ceiling with books and _tut-tutt_ ing when he had to miracle the walls out to fit the excess, like letting the seam out of a snug pair of pants. When Crowley asked, with a rakish grin, where he expected to fit a bed in all of this, Aziraphale gestured to his favorite reading chair, propped between a large bay window and a fireplace that Crowley was certain had not been in the room that morning.

“Really, dear boy. You’re the one who sleeps. I never had any use for a bed in my old flat.” And they left it at that. 

The garden was already a thing of beauty. Even Crowley’s threats couldn’t dampen the spirits of his plants, which were positively topsy-turvy with joy at the _sun_ and _fresh air_ and _space_. Aziraphale had to agree with them. It was like he could _breathe_ here, in a way he hadn’t for hundreds of years. Crowley had even erected a small greenhouse near the kitchen, where the less hardy plants could reside- beautiful, temperamental tropical things that Crowley insisted he treated just as badly as the rest, but that Aziraphale thought he might secretly have a soft spot for. 

They had a well-stocked wine cellar and a mismatched collection of furniture, half of which looked like it came from a posh high street boutique[2], and half of which looked like it came from a charity sale put on by the Georgian wing at the Met. They hauled boxes in by hand, arranging and rearranging, out loud because they didn’t want to use so many miracles that it became suspicious, but internally because it felt _right, domestic_ even, to do this sort of thing the human way. Crowley, grunting from the effort and already having stripped down to his vest, half carried, half dragged in a rather unwieldy sculpture from the rented van[3]. He ducked out of the doorway to allow Aziraphale through with yet another box of books. The angel had foregone his coat and even rolled up his shirtsleeves, which caused Crowley to make a sound suspiciously like he was being strangled.

“Got to… Uh…” Crowley gaped. Swallowed. “Got to move… A… Thing.” Aziraphale, oblivious as ever, hefted the box onto a table.

“Do you need a hand?” he asked, drawing Crowley’s attention back to his hands. His arms. His undone bowtie… 

“ _Ngk_ … No, s’fine, I’ve got-”

“Crowley… Is that…?” Aziraphale trailed off, gesturing to the statue that Crowley had been dragging in. Crowley’s entire chest went red, as Aziraphale stepped away from his box to examine it. Well, statue wasn’t really the proper word. _Lectern_ was the proper one. Aziraphale had seen quite a few in his life, but this one, well… It stood out. 

“Y’know,” Crowley muttered, shrugging. “Sssouvenir.” He kicked himself at the inadvertent hiss. Aziraphale’s lips twitched upward.

“From that night in the church?” Aziraphale grinned, circling the lectern. “Like Agnes Nutter’s book?” He pressed closer. Crowley hadn’t wanted to be a snake so badly in millennia. 

“Ssshut it,” he managed, but the angel had a knowing look in his eyes. As Crowley began to heft the lectern out of the main sitting room, Aziraphale placed a hand on his chest. 

“Oh come on. Like you’ve never kept something for sssentimental value.” Crowley cursed his sibilants as he attempted to drag the damned heavy thing away. “Your bookshop is practically a bloody museum.” Crowley adopted a singsong tone. “ _Oh, this old thing? Just a snuffbox… Yes, from a dear friend… Well, Prince Albert if you must know. Oh, and that one? I found it in the most darling little shop in Bath, the bakery next door had these incredible-”_

“Where are you taking that, dear?” Aziraphale asked, expertly evading the taunts. Perhaps he had learned something about misdirection in those magic classes after all.

“M’room,” Crowley murmured, heaving the blasted thing towards the door. Aziraphale scampered in front of him.

“Oh no you don’t.” Aziraphale grasped the other end of the lectern. “Right here would be lovely.” He brightened, pointing to a spot in the corner, where the light from the front windows would illuminate it. “Out in the open. I don’t want you hiding it away for another 80 years. And I have a first edition of _Paradise Lost_ that would fit it perfectly.” Crowley’s eyes widened, and Aziraphale realized what he had said. 

“Oh! I mean, well… Perhaps a Bible-” Crowley shook his head. 

“Not a chance, Angel.” He snickered. “ _Paradise Lost_ it is. Your illustrated edition, for sure. And I know just which page it should be open to[4].”

Hours later, when they had finally finished moving everything into the cottage, they sighed, collapsing boneless against each other on a very sleek and modern sofa while dusk began to settle in around them, warm and comfortable and quiet. 

“Should we risk whatever this little place has in regards to take-away?” Crowley asked, knowing that this was around the time of evening that Aziraphale, though devoid of any human constitution, got peckish. Aziraphale shook his head, a coy smile tugging on his lips.

“No, actually I had something rather special in mind.” Crowley craned his neck back.

“Well let’s hope it’s not a black tie affair.” He gestured down at his grubby black vest and the streaks of dust across his face from cleaning out the kitchen cabinets. Aziraphale laughed.

“Certainly not. But I do have to get things ready, so if you’d like to try out the bathroom, I imagine that there may be a lovely claw foot tub waiting[5].” Crowley imagined Aziraphale nestled there beneath a monolith of bubbles, reading some gigantic old tome and sipping from a cup of tea, and felt a fond ache deep in his chest. 

“Get things ready?” Crowley asked, narrowing his gaze in suspicion.

“A surprise. And don’t you go sneaking about trying to ruin it.” Aziraphale pointed his finger at Crowley’s chest like a schoolmarm in some coming-of-age novel set on the American prairie. 

“Me?” Crowley asked, feigning innocence. “Cause trouble? Inspire _mischief? Me_?” he repeated, retreating down the hall in a fit of giggles. Aziraphale tossed a handful of packing peanuts in his direction, but he did it with a smile. 

Crowley really had intended to use the shower- he had worked very hard on it, after all- but Aziraphale had apparently filled the bath for him, water hot and steaming and smelling of lavender. That pang in his chest came back as he lowered himself into the tub, sighing as the heat worked out the aches and pains of a long but blissful day. He had also intended to sneak up on Aziraphale- perform some minor meddling, cause the angel to huff and puff a bit, just to get the old juices flowing- but within a few moments he was fast asleep. 

A hand on his temple- gentle, oh so gentle- pulled Crowley out of his slumber. When he came to, Aziraphale’s face was mere inches away from his, his thumb delicately tracing the serpent tattoo on his cheek. Crowley arched, catlike, into the touch, then started up, splashing water down the side of the tub. He realized belatedly that, though the water was still warm, it was also still quite transparent, and thus left precious little to the imagination.“Angel,” he stammered, hands rushing to maintain whatever modesty he had left, but Aziraphale only grinned. 

“Don’t worry, my dear. No peeking.” Cheeky bastard, cheeky bloody _bastard_. “I just wanted to see if you were ready for your surprise.” Crowley ran a hand through his damp hair. 

“Hell, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” Aziraphale shushed him. 

“Not a problem, dear. You were exhausted.” That blessed thumb, again. Now it was rubbing circles against Crowley’s temple. How was he supposed to concentrate? “But if you’re not too tired, would you like to get dressed and come into the garden?” Crowley nodded, wordless, his neck craning in an attempt to keep the angel’s hand on his cheek for just a moment longer, but Aziraphale was already gone. He hurried into a pair of too-tight jeans and a soft black button-down and ran after him, doing up the shirt as he went. 

Crowley was halfway done with the buttons when he stopped in his tracks. The door leading out beyond the kitchen was propped open, and beyond it was… Well, their garden, he supposed. _Their_ garden. But beyond _that_ , the night sky, so much deeper than a city sky. You could see forever. He stepped out of the door, buttons forgotten, and simply _stared_. So many stars- ones he’d had a hand in, ones that had been ancient when he was first made. He hadn’t seen them like this, hadn’t really taken the time to _look_ , in… He couldn’t remember how long. 

A polite cough pulled him back to earth. There, beneath the ancient maple tree at the garden’s edge, was Aziraphale, coat still off but shirtsleeves properly buttoned, sitting prim on a huge tartan blanket laden with delicacies. Crowley, for one of the first times in his exceedingly long life, was at a loss for words. 

“Now, this may be quite overdue,” the angel said with some trepidation, “but I do believe I owe you a picnic.” Crowley walked over like a man in a trance. Aziraphale sat among a motley assortment- oysters on ice, angel cake on china, deviled eggs and crepes, chilled champagne with two flutes. Aziraphale’s smile was shy. 

“I know that you’re not quite as fond of eating as I am, but I’ve wracked my brain and, well…” Was the angel actually _blushing_? “Whenever we’ve shared a meal that you actually partook of, these seem to have been your favorites.” 

“You…” Crowley began. He shook his head and started again. “This is…” 

“A grand gesture.” Aziraphale smiled, patting the blanket next to him. “Not quite on par with saving one from beheading, or the burning of Alexandria, or German bombs or what have you. But I do hope a meaningful one nonetheless.” Crowley remained, unmoving, and at a loss for words.

“Oh! I almost forgot the most important course.” Aziraphale stood. With one hand, he grasped Crowley’s. With the other, he reached up and plucked a perfect, red apple from the branch above their heads. Crowley’s eyes followed his hand. 

“I may have made a slight modification to that lovely old tree. I don’t believe it minded [6]. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.” Aziraphale grinned.

“A bit distracted,” Crowley murmured. He took the apple from Aziraphale’s hand, the implications running through his mind like a whirlwind. 

“This is…” he repeated. A question. “What is this, Angel?” He searched Aziraphale’s eyes for an answer. 

“The same thing it was the first time,” Aziraphale responded, eyes bright, remembering another garden, and another apple, so very long ago. 

“A temptation?” Crowley asked, mouth dry, barely trusting his voice not to crack. 

“A promise.” Aziraphale covered Crowley’s hand with his own, and bit into the apple. He smiled, wiping juice from his lip, and inched the fruit closer to Crowley. With the angel’s fingers warm and soft against his own, he took a bite.

* * *

1From the way Aziraphale’s eyes lit up at the cream puffs on display, Crowley assumed that the mood would take them early and often.  
Return to text  


2The kind that did without price tags, because if you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it.Return to text

3Of course I can drive it, Angel. You’ve seen me drive the Bentley, haven’t you?”  
“Unfortunately, my dear, that is exactly my point.”Return to text

4A very flattering likeness, if Crowley did say so himself.Return to text

5Crowley himself had miracled his own shower earlier that day- sleek black tile, 15 sets of shower heads with various pressure and temperature settings and heat sensitive mood lighting, but no need to ruin the angel’s fantasy. Room enough for two, and all that.Return to text

6 The maple tree did not mind. In fact, it was quite exhilarated. Change wasn’t something most trees were lucky enough to experience, especially after over a century of the same old seasons of growing and dropping leaves, and this whole apple-making business was actually quite fun.Return to text


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale’s eyes shone, reflecting the light of a hundred thousand stars. The apple core fell to their feet, unnoticed and unheeded. Instead, their fingers wound together, Crowley pulling Aziraphale’s hand towards his mouth like he had pulled the apple, and placing the gentlest of kisses on his knuckles, eyes begging permission. 

“I’m afraid I’ve rather made a mess of this.” Aziraphale gestured between them. He ran a hand up Crowley’s neck, stopping once again to run his thumb gently along the serpent tattoo. “I’m sorry you had to wait so long for me to catch up.” 

“Patience is a virtue.” Crowley smirked, laying a soft kiss against the angel’s wrist, causing Aziraphale to bite his lip. “Don’t your lot always go in for those?”

“Sod patience,” Aziraphale muttered, and brought their lips together, the sticky-sweet taste of the apple still clinging to them. Crowley dropped the angel’s hand in favor of winding his fingers through Aziraphale’s soft curls, pulling his mouth closer. Crowley sighed into the kiss, and Aziraphale decided to follow that sweetness to its core, lapping with insistence against Crowley’s lips. He devoured Crowley’s mouth as he would a particularly decadent dessert, accompanied by all the delicious sounds that went with it. Crowley responded in earnest, running his tongue along Aziraphale’s bottom lip. Aziraphale gasped, causing Crowley to chuckle, the sound vibrating between their lips. 

“One of the many perks of kissing a demon-” Crowley murmured “-namely me-” he ran his tongue along the angel’s lip again “-is that I can do really weird things with my tongue.” He demonstrated this talent, licking into Aziraphale’s mouth and massaging the angel’s tongue with his own. Aziraphale moaned against him, ringing his fingers tightly in Crowley’s hair, and oh, he liked that very much. He dove hungrily into the kiss, tongue darting in and out, desperate to taste every inch of the angel. Aziraphale responded in kind, pulling Crowley’s face impossibly closer, alternating between chaste brushes of lips and voracious caresses, all tongue and teeth. Crowley smiled. That was so like the angel- the perfect balance of demurity and hedonism. 

He dropped a hand to Aziraphale’s neck, rubbing soft circles against his skin, his thumb sneaking wickedly beneath the collar. The other hand fell to the angel’s waist, tugging so that they were flush against each other, separated by nothing but their thin layers of clothes. Still, it was too much. Crowley began toying with Aziraphale’s buttons, popping them one by one, desperate to see every inch that had been hidden by tartan and wool and fine linen for what seemed like millennia. Aziraphale pressed back against him, wanton with need, and felt Crowley growing hard between them, straining against his absurdly tight pants. 

“That’s quite the effort, my dear.” Aziraphale grinned, slotting one gloriously plush thigh between Crowley’s wiry ones. Crowley gulped, feeling the angel’s decidedly not-inconsiderable effort pressing with insistence against his own. 

“Look who’sss talking,” Crowley hissed, hooking one finger beneath the cloth of Aziraphale’s waistband. “Hardly a sssstaff of angelic mercy you’ve got there.” Aziraphale laughed against his lips.

“Well, when one’s hereditary enemy decides to sleep for an entire _century_ , one does find oneself in need of a hobby.” 

Crowley pulled away, staring at Aziraphale in hunger. He took the opportunity to attack Aziraphale’s neck where his collar fell open, showing the angel just what a demonic tongue could do. Aziraphale gasped, tossing back his head, clinging to Crowley like a sailor in a squall. Seeing the angel like this drove Crowley mad. With a wave, he whisked away the luxuries that surrounded them, dropping to the soft blanket and easing Aziraphale down on top of him. 

“Wait!” Aziraphale squeaked against Crowley’s skin, reaching over to snatch away a delicate, strawberries-and-cream confection before Crowley could miracle it away. “I worked rather hard on that,” Aziraphale growled, finding a choice spot on Crowley’s neck and biting down harder than was strictly necessary. 

“S’all in the fridge, Angel.” Crowley smiled. “Besides. M’not hungry,” Crowley murmured, hungrily, catching Aziraphale’s lips. “Well… Not for any of that.” He smirked, making Aziraphale laugh, deep and full. Crowley felt the laugh all along his body and shivered. If he could only feel one thing for the rest of his immortal life, until the end of time, it would be that soft rumble of joy against him. 

“I, on the other hand,” Aziraphale swirled his finger through a dollop of whipped cream sitting atop the intricate pastry, “am absolutely famished.” Crowley almost began to protest when, instead of finding its way into Aziraphale’s mouth, the cream-covered finger began to tease the bare skin of his chest. 

_Ngk_ didn’t even begin to cover it. 

Aziraphale’s eyes were positively devious, never blinking as his lips descended onto the swirl of cream. Crowley threw his head back, letting out a moan that put every hedonistic little sound that Aziraphale had ever made while dining to shame. While one of Aziraphale’s hands began teasing off his buttons, one by one, the other traced down his chest with the cream, followed closely by his tongue. When his shirt was fully open, Aziraphale reached over, dipping two fingers into the dessert and depositing two generous drops onto Crowley’s chest. The chilled cream made Crowley hiss, but the warm tongue that followed had him grasping at the blanket beneath him as if it was the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth. Aziraphale rolled his tongue lazily over the cream on one nipple, waiting until it was firmly pebbled before delivering a quick nip. Crowley bit his bottom lip, a groan escaping despite his best efforts, as the same treatment was awarded to the other nipple. Aziraphale continued his trek down Crowley’s belly and Crowley bucked up against him, tangling his hands once again in the angel’s downy curls. When Aziraphale’s tongue finally reached the waistband of Crowley’s pants, he looked up with a grin that could only be described as devilish. 

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley keened as Aziraphale fitted himself between his thighs, ghosting hot breath along the bulge in his trousers, which were now even more impossibly tight than they had been before. 

“May I?” Aziraphale asked, rubbing his nose along the zipper, then teasing at it with his teeth.

“ _Anything_ … Anything you want,” Crowley choked out. That was just what Aziraphale wanted to hear. In a flash, he snapped the button open and clasped the zipper in his teeth, pulling it down so impossibly slowly that Crowley thought he just might discorporate. Aziraphale hitched his fingers in the belt loops and began to pull, but barely got the skin-tight pants to move an inch. He sighed.

“Really, my dear- what kind of miracle does it take to get these things on, much less off?” he grumbled, pulling and twisting every which way. Crowley snickered, and Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. 

“All right then. Miracle it is.” He snapped his fingers haughtily, and Crowley’s laugh became a gasp as cool night air flashed against his skin where his pants- and shirt, apparently- had just been. Aziraphale returned to his previous position and licked his lips. Crowley’s cock was standing free now, thick and pink and perfect, and the angel ran a delicate hand down the shaft. He marveled at the weight of it in his hand, the feel of it, soft skin and hard yearning. Crowley mewled, tossing his head back and breathing heavily, lost in sensation but desperate not to come from one touch like a sodding teenager, even if he had been dreaming of this for millennia. 

“My dear, I do wish you’d keep your lovely eyes on mine.” Aziraphale’s breath was hot against Crowley’s cock, and the demon’s head shot back up, eyes honed on Aziraphale’s like a magnet pulled inexorably toward its opposite. 

“Much better.” Aziraphale smiled, and pressed a kiss against the head of Crowley’s cock, red and straining, already dripping at the tip. Crowley fought the urge to screw his eyes shut and continued to stare as the angel dragged his tongue along the vein at the underside of his cock. If he thought he was going to discorporate before, he’d had no idea. 

“Fuck… Angel… _Please_ ,” Crowley breathed, deep and ragged. 

“Tell me what you want, love,” Aziraphale murmured, so close that Crowley could _feel_ his words. It was the _love_ that did him in. 

“Need you,” Crowley gasped. “Need your mouth on me. Your hands. Everywhere. Need you in me. Please,” he begged, and Aziraphale may have been a bastard, but he would never let such pretty begging go to waste. He sucked in the head of Crowley’s cock, cheeks hollowing, tongue lapping at the slit, reveling in the smoky, bitter taste of him. Crowley choked, his hands flying to Aziraphale’s hair, not pushing him further but grasping him like a lifeline. Aziraphale worked his way down, easing his throat open, aided by the convenient fact that angels were created before God had any bright ideas about silly things like gag reflexes and breathing. He worked his hand at the base of Crowley’s shaft, thumb caressing the underside where it met his body. 

“Never…” Crowley rasped out the words between moans. “Never gonna be able to watch you eat an ice lolly again.” Aziraphale chuckled, the bastard, and the vibrations ran electric up Crowley’s cock. He ran his hand further, cradling Crowley’s balls, toying with the sensitive skin, causing Crowley to buck into his mouth. 

“I want... “ Crowley bit his lip, almost enough to draw blood. “Please, Angel, I want-” Aziraphale’s mouth came off him with a pop, and his cock bounced against his belly, desperate and eager. 

“What do you want, my dearest?” Aziraphale asked, his voice so soft, so gentle. Crowley flushed. 

“Want to come with you inside me,” he managed to stammer from between gritted teeth. Aziraphale’s smile was so bright, Crowley almost swore he could see the angel’s halo. 

“Of course, my love.” He smiled, and dove back down between Crowley’s legs. Crowley almost objected- he wasn’t going to last with Aziraphale’s mouth on his cock for another second- but the angel bypassed his leaking shaft entirely. He nuzzled his face against Crowley’s thigh, tossed him a wicked grin, then pulled apart his cheeks to lick a long, hot stripe against the pucker of his tight entrance. Crowley’s hand flew to his mouth, and he had to bite a knuckle to keep from crying out as Aziraphale’s tongue slowly worked him open. The angel pistoned in and out of him, and Crowley had to admit that there was certainly something to be said for angelic tongues as well. 

A finger replaced Aziraphale’s tongue in its ministrations, insistent and suspiciously slick against him. Aziraphale tilted his head from between Crowley’s thighs, and Crowley raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh hush.” Aziraphale punctuated his admonishment with a slow stroke of his finger inside Crowley. “Barely counts as a miracle”. Crowley smiled, pulling Aziraphale close, claiming his lips once again as he felt the angel move inside him, a second finger joining the first. Crowley revelled in the delicious ache and stretch of it. He arched his back, urging Aziraphale to hurry, but the angel would not rush this. He opened Crowley with the practiced, precise care that he used on his ancient tomes, a third finger filling him so deeply that Crowley thought he might burst. He brushed something deep within Crowley that caused the demon to emit a strangled cry into the night, and smiled wickedly against his lips. 

“There we are,” Aziraphale murmured, his tone congratulating himself on a job well done. He crooked his fingers against that spot a second time, a third, until Crowley was a whimpering mess beneath him. 

“‘Ziraphale… Please…” Crowley gasped out from between gulps of air. “Need you.”

“What do you need?” Aziraphale whispered against his ear, withdrawing his fingers and kneeling between Crowley’s legs. Crowley threw his head back and growled.

“I need you to fuck me, you absolute bastard.” Aziraphale grinned, but kept his hands to himself. Crowley returned his gaze to the angel, incredulous, indignant with need, but swallowed his reprimand when he met with a sight that his brain could only describe as heavenly. Aziraphale had divested himself of his trousers and underthings, and was just shrugging out of his shirt when Crowley’s golden eyes met his. Crowley scrambled to sit up, chiding himself at being so lost in his own pleasure that he had almost missed _this_. 

Aziraphale _glowed_ , and Crowley no longer had any doubt that the angel’s halo was shining through onto the earthly plane. Crowley moved to touch him, but stopped his hand halfway, almost afraid to mar something so holy with his unworthy hand. As if he could read his mind, Aziraphale grasped Crowley’s hand and pulled it toward him, and then it was everywhere. Crowley couldn’t get enough of that touch. He ran his fingers along the angel’s chest, dusted with fine white curls that matched his hair. Down his sides, grasping at Aziraphale’s belly, his thighs, delighting in the dichotomy of soft and firm, tenderness and strength. His hands dropped to the angel’s cock, full and wanting, thick and and twitching at his touch, and Aziraphale moaned, bucking into Crowley’s fist, slick with a demonic miracle of his own. Aziraphale captured Crowley’s lips once more, and Crowley climbed catlike into the angel’s lap. He pressed Aziraphale down, gentle but insistent, so that the angel was lying on the blanket with Crowley straddling his magnificent hips. 

“My dear-” Aziraphale began to protest, but Crowley silenced him, grasping the angel’s cock firmly in his hand. Aziraphale bit his lip, and Crowley smiled down at him, positioning himself so that the head of Aziraphale’s cock just breached his desperate opening. He lowered himself onto Aziraphale and the angel’s firm hands fell to his hips- not to rush, to pull him down and chase his pleasure, but to hold Crowley up, to keep this slow and tentative, to keep him from hurting himself. Crowley felt a rush of love at that moment, and let out a high-pitched cry of pleasure when Aziraphale finally, _finally_ bottomed out inside of him. 

It was like nothing Crowley had ever felt. Not only full, deliciously, gloriously full, but divine- more so than he had ever felt before the fall, as if he was created by God herself to hold Aziraphale deep inside him. He gulped down breaths, adjusting to the incredible stretch of the angel’s cock. Aziraphale arched up, his face an open book of love and adoration, and pulled Crowley’s lips into a kiss so chaste and gentle that it almost made Crowley laugh, so innocent and pure even while fucking a demon. Crowley responded eagerly, his tongue playing at Aziraphale’s lips, and he began to experiment with movement- pulling back slightly and then plunging down once more. Aziraphale gasped into the kiss, his fingers almost bruising against Crowley’s hips, and this encouraged him to continue. 

“You feel magnificent, my dear,” Aziraphale rasped against his lips. “You’re so… So very good to me.” He let out a strangled mewl as Crowley raised his hips even further and thrust down once more, taking the angel as deep as he could go. Aziraphale’s cock hit that spot deep within Crowley and he cried out the angel’s name. 

“Aziraphale!” he shouted, pressing them both to the ground, rutting against the angel, filling himself over and over. 

“ _Crowley._ ” Aziraphale murmured his name against his lips with such devotion that it felt like a vesper. He began meeting Crowley’s thrusts in kind, assured by the delicious moans Crowley was making that he needn’t hold himself back any longer on his account. Crowley was so very tight, so warm, so perfect around him, and they dragged cries of pleasure from each other with every thrust. Crowley dug his fingers into the angel’s hips, anchoring himself in Aziraphale’s perfect flesh as he filled himself over and over. 

Crowley’s head fell back, eyes closed, and Aziraphale stared at him in renewed wonder. He was so beautiful like this, glistening with a sheen of sweat, dizzy with pleasure, crowned with the leaves of an apple tree, haloed in the stars. Aziraphale couldn’t help himself- he drove himself into Crowley with renewed vigor, deep and hard, and Crowley’s molten eyes met his once more. 

“Not… _Ngk_ … Not going to last,” Crowley stammered, teeth clenched. Aziraphale’s hand snaked between them, fingers twining firmly around Crowley’s cock. 

“Come for me.” A command and a plea all at once. He matched his thrusts with pulls on Crowley’s cock, his thumb massaging the sensitive head where a steady stream of precum glistened. Crowley swallowed a moan and nodded, pistoning himself, taking Aziraphale inside him again and again, not holding back. Aziraphale angled himself once again to stroke the spot of Crowley’s pleasure and watched as the demon unspooled before him. With a sharp cry, Crowley came, hot streams shooting out onto their bellies and the angel’s hand. Aziraphale fucked him through it, firm and insistent, wringing out every ounce of pleasure that he could. Crowley was a gasping mess above him, tightening impossibly around his cock, and Aziraphale groaned. 

“P-please,” Crowley managed, blissed out and delirious, still canting his hips as his orgasm drained him. “Inside me.” Aziraphale was happy to oblige. With a few more thrusts inside Crowley’s hot core, he came hard, filling him fully. Crowley collapsed on top of him, still seated with Aziraphale’s softening cock inside him. Their breaths slowly returned to normal- or whatever normal was, for an angel and a demon on earth for so long that they decided that things like heartbeats and breathing and apparently fucking each other silly were worthwhile tasks. Aziraphale carded his fingers through Crowley’s sweat-soaked hair while he drowsed, whispering in his ear.

“You did so well, my dear, so very well. You really are a wonder, so good to me, so good.” Crowley didn’t have the energy to insist against this slander, and a smile was growing on his face despite himself, so instead he silenced Aziraphale with his own sleepy lips, grazing and licking and drinking the words from the angel’s tongue.


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley needn’t have worried.

His bed, as it turned out, had plenty of room for two. 

They sauntered into the house together, sharing kisses and touches and half-drunk on each other, and made their way to Crowley’s room, with only a short detour to the kitchen for some chocolate croissants. Crowley gave Aziraphale a _look_ from where his face was tucked in next to the angel’s neck, gently licking and nipping along the skin.

“Gonna get crumbs in my bed, Angel,” he whined, shifting his attention to Aziraphale’s ear. 

“Well I do need _some_ sustenance after the acrobatics that you put me through, my dear,” Aziraphale pouted. “And all without dinner.” Crowley chuckled.

“Oh, I’m just _terribly_ sorry about that.” He laved his tongue along Aziraphale’s pulse. “You’re right. _Far_ too much exertion. You shouldn’t get out of bed for at least a week.” Aziraphale swatted his bare backside. 

“A month!” Crowley squealed, tugging the angel towards his bedroom before he could reach for the crepes. 

They fell into bed in a heap, giggling and running their hands over skin that had been off limits for far too long, savoring the touches that they’d spent so many years starving themselves of. They spread out together on black silk sheets, Aziraphale propped against the headboard and savoring his dessert, Crowley curled against him, staring in open, unabashed fondness. Aziraphale ran a gentle hand through Crowley’s hair as he finished the last bite of pastry, sliding down to face him and pull him close. He couldn’t help but notice how _well_ they fit together, like they were made to, edges matching with curves, hands fitting perfectly in the grooves of each others’ hips, their necks. Crowley pulled him into a kiss that had none of their earlier eager desperation- this kiss was comfortable. A ‘slipping-into-a-warm-bath’ of a kiss. A good book in front of a fire kiss. A coming home kind of kiss. 

“Love you, Angel,” Crowley whispered against Aziraphale’s lips. “Always have.” He peppered kisses along the angel’s chest. “I should have… Should’ve said. So many times.”

“Hush, my dear.” Aziraphale pulled back to plant soft kisses on top of Crowley’s head, stroking his unruly hair. “You did. So many times, in so many ways, you told me.” His eyes glittered in the low lamplight. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. For so long, you must have thought that I didn’t feel the same.” He shifted, urging Crowley to face him, to meet his eyes, as he continued. “I love you. I did. I do. I always will.” Crowley really did want to say something clever in that instant, something about how the angel could spend the rest of eternity making it up to him right here in this bed, but Aziraphale’s fingers were drawing soothing patterns against his skin, and Aziraphale’s lips were blazing a tantalizing trail down his cheek, and all that came out was a soft, contented _hiss_ [1].

“Will you stay with me?” Crowley yawned, curling his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, twining an arm around his chest and a foot around his ankle[2]. “Even though you don’t like to sleep?” Aziraphale let out his own yawn in response. 

“I may not sleep _alone_ , my dear boy.” He wrapped an arm around Crowley, as if to belabor his point. “But I could certainly allow myself to be convinced of the merits of sleeping with company.” He wriggled closer to Crowley, pulling the blankets up to cover them both, flicking off the lamp so that the only illumination was cool moonlight pouring in through the window. 

For the first time in his very long life, wrapped sound and secure in the arms of a demon, Aziraphale, Principality of Heaven and Guardian of the Eastern Gate, fell asleep. 

And, if, sometime in the night, Crowley awoke to find that the sheets had mysteriously turned from sleek black silk to soft tartan flannel, he smiled and said nothing, just curled in closer to his angel and went back to sleep.

* * *

1The sound was remarkably similar to that of the air being let out of a very pleased and well-sated tire.  
Return to text  


2As Aziraphale can attest, it is remarkably difficult to remove oneself from a snake in this position. One would do best not even to try.Return to text

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Something So Precious About This by 221cbakerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22552585) by [221cbakerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221cbakerstreet/pseuds/221cbakerstreet), [CompassRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompassRose/pseuds/CompassRose)




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